


The Archivist

by FoxRafer



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 03:52:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxRafer/pseuds/FoxRafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the icon challenge at <a href="http://tripledogdare.livejournal.com/"><b>tripledogdare</b></a>. My inspiration icon, made by <a href="http://swanboat-icons.livejournal.com/"><b>swanboat_icons</b></a>, is below. Bergil mentions that Iorlas is his uncle. I decided that he was also Beregond's brother (although he could be related to Bergil through his mother).</p>
<p>
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    </blockquote>





	The Archivist

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the icon challenge at [**tripledogdare**](http://tripledogdare.livejournal.com/). My inspiration icon, made by [**swanboat_icons**](http://swanboat-icons.livejournal.com/), is below. Bergil mentions that Iorlas is his uncle. I decided that he was also Beregond's brother (although he could be related to Bergil through his mother).

"He used to love walking up into the foothills. He'd head out for hours, wandering along paths and climbing trees. Nothing with him but a hunting knife on his hip and a piece of wood and his pocket knife at his breast. That was one of his favorite things in the world, carving."

She stops, her attention drawn to a small wooden figure on the mantle.

"Is that one of his?"

Her smile is soft and wistful as she stands to retrieve it. He's struck once again at how little damage this home incurred during the war. Structurally, that is. In every other way it was hit a terrible blow, possibly one this quiet woman may not recover from. He watches as she walks over to him, the small figurine held reverently in one hand, the other twisting in the folds of her skirt. She seems faded, almost turning into mist before his eyes. He wonders how long it will be before he hears of her death, another silent casualty of these horrific days.

She hands him the miniature and he takes it carefully, rubs his fingers across the smooth wood, admires the artistry and simple craftsmanship. He wishes he could sketch it, add the image to his book, but his skill is weak and he can't spare the time it would take for him to do the piece even a small amount of justice. So he respectively studies it, compliments her sons talent.

As he hands it back he writes a brief description on the page, jotting a few words that will help him fill in the details when he reviews his work tonight. He makes note of all the figurines in the room, tries to capture their importance more than their worth, takes care to mention those in places of prominence. The room is uncluttered but carefully decorated, but all the warmth has been leeched from the space. What was likely once cozy and familiar now feels austere and somber. Mourning fills every corner, suffocates fresh air and clouds the rays of sun that stream through the windows.

He delicately asks a few more questions, tries to elicit some more stories about her husband and child. But he can see she's begun to shut down, pull inward into her memories and further away from the stricken reality her life has become. He quickly finishes his tea then rises to leave, thanks her for her hospitality and time. Her voice is almost a whisper as she wishes him well, then she slowly sinks into the chair by the fire, her vision filling with images of the husband and son who will never again walk across her creaky wooden floors, arms laden with parcels or open in greeting.

It's late afternoon when he steps outside, the sun heavy on his brow. His limbs feel sluggish and his back aches. This mission is beginning to take its toll, physically and emotionally. At times he was met with stoic pride and determination, other times with an almost celebratory atmosphere. But too many days end like this, with overwhelming grief and desperate pain. He often wondered what kind of man he had become, inflicting such anguish on those already suffering. For while he did not force them to speak, the chance to memorialize their loved ones in the annals of their country was too great a lure for most to pass by.

Today he'd learned of a baker's love of poetry, a stone carver's gift for calligraphy, now a farmer's son's skill with a knife. An archive of stories of the dead and missing was but one way Gondor would honor and give thanks to all who were lost, but it was a deeply personal tribute and one King Elessar had expressly commissioned. The scribe tenses his shoulders, shrugs and relaxes to relieve some of the stress of the day, then secures his book and quill in his saddlebag. In his life, at this moment, there is nothing more important than this task, and he will continue his travels for as long as he is needed. He mounts his horse and heads down the road to the next village, the next household whose memories are waiting to be told.


End file.
